Chapter Text
The Mastermind
Masadora International Museum of Art, Greed Island
2:23pm
Once a year, Greed Island hosted the largest auction in the world.
People came from all over the world to witness it. Politicians, businessmen, industry leaders, professors, investors, museum curators, artists, mafia kingpins, the general public. They walked through the Limeiro International Museum of Art and the Greed Island History Museum to admire the proffered wares, setting their eyes on their prizes and getting their claws into anyone who might dare to steal their bounties. They made their deals, exchanged money and favors and goods and services. They bought their tickets for the five-day event’s festivities: the fancy lunches and dinners, the high-profile auctions, the poker tournament (because these people needed more excuses to throw their money around, it seemed), the final night’s auction and gala. The passes granting access to different auctions were color-coded by exclusivity: green for general access, yellow for mid-tier access, red for high-security auctions and the final gala; copper for a hundred-thousand jenny buy-in, silver for a five-hundred thousand dollar buy-in, gold for a one million jenny buy-in. Platinum passes were the most exclusive and issued by invitation only.
Tourist activity on Greed Island picked up three months before the event even started. The museums presented exhibits for the rabble masses to enjoy a glimpse of the finer things in life. People flocked to the museums to look at priceless art, historic weapons and documents and books, jewels and rocks and fossils, mint-condition pop culture items. Vendors set up food carts and discount knock-offs of auction items. It was a street fair that slowly and steadily dissolved into a Mardis-Gras level carnival as the months melted by.
Which was why nobody paid much attention to the man in the finely-tailored black suit and charcoal-gray peacoat who walked into the Limeiro International Museum of Art two and a half months before auction week. He was quiet and polite, his credit cards bearing a name that was not his, his force of personality mollified as he blended in with the crowd. He did not walk too fast to his destination, nor did he move so slow he lingered or fell behind the pace of the crowd. Like a leaf floating along a river, he allowed himself to be gently ushered through the busy galleries.
He meandered through the halls, taking in paintings and sculptures, before he found himself in the gemstone room.
“You know I can’t make it,” the voice in his bluetooth reminded.
Kurapika hummed his assent. He did know. And he would not have asked for Pairo’s assistance in any case. His scholarly brother and fence was too well known in these circles. More importantly, he did not have the skillset for this particular job.
Pairo sighed. “You’re going to need friends.”
He hummed again. The woman in front of him finally drank in her fill of the gems in front of her, and he stepped forward. A square-cut emerald the size of his fist sat on a pillow of plush white velvet. Boring. His interests were a little finer.
“I mean,” Pairo was still saying, undeterred by Kurapika’s lackluster responses. “This is a big event to plan. You’ll need a lot of help. I’m thinking it over, and you’ll need… Twenty? Eighteen? I wouldn’t plan this party with any fewer than fifteen.”
“Seven,” Kurapika spoke for the first time. The person next to him gave him an odd look but quickly lost interest when they saw the bluetooth earpiece through his hair. He sent them a polite, apologetic smile, tapping his earpiece before walking on. Pairo’s loud, hacking coughs rattled his ear, accompanied by the rhythmic thumping as he slapped his own chest, telling him that his brother had been in the middle of taking a sip of his drink when he shared that detail.
“Seven – are you insane? Seven?! Don’t answer that, I know you can’t and you won’t agree anyway, so I’ll just tell you, you are insane.” He could picture Pairo running his hands through his thick curls. There was another dull banging sound like Pairo was banging his forehead into his own desk. “There is no way in the world you can run a – plan a party of this magnitude with only seven people. Wait, does that count include you?”
“Yes.”
“I hate you,” Pairo groaned. “I do, I really do.”
Kurapika let him have his meltdown in peace. The crowd slowly ushered him toward the center of the room, where the Gemstone Auction’s greatest treasure sat. The solid gold mask sat atop a plain black wire stand. The mask featured swirling designs like wind whistling through trees, like the curling rivers through the forest, like the ocean waves caressing sandy shores at low tide. In the eye sockets sat two spherical, masterfully cut ruby-red gemstones.
The Kurta Eyes, the sign below the mask proclaimed, Originally gifted to Yorknew University’s Historical Institute by the Kurta Clan, a primitive sect of people living deep in the mountains of the Lukso Province. The Eyes are two internally flawless, 45-carat, round-cut red diamonds, the rarest in the world. While historians and anthropologists argue the gems are priceless, considering their value as cultural items, jewelers price the gems at 500 million jenny each.
Starting Price in the Greed Island Annual Auction is 2 billion jenny.
Kurapika’s hands clenched into fists in his pockets. He was grateful for his poker face and his patience, because both were being incredibly tested at the moment. Primitive, like the Kurta lacked science, culture, history, education, electricity, running water, plumbing. Priceless, except for how much they cost.
Gifted, when the Institute really meant stolen.
Pairo had gone quiet. “You’re doing it anyway.”
He made a soft noise of assent. He had seen what he needed to; he allowed himself to be swept along by the general crush of warmth and bodies, floated out of the exhibit hall like a leaf on a river.
“These other six must be very excellent.”
For the first time in his call, Kurapika smiled. He directed his steps toward the door. He had a plane to catch.
“They are,” Kurapika assured him.
“Have you worked together?” Pairo demanded. “Have you even met?”
“No,” Kurapika said, and he ended the call.
(Later, though, he received a text: can you be a little less dramatic and actually say goodbye on a call like a normal person??? you exhaust me. be safe, idiot. you definitely aren’t the only person planning a party that week.)
The Muscle
Nox Nightclub, Yorknew City
12:48am
Heady, sultry bass pounded from the floor-to-ceiling speakers, leaving the music to linger in clubbers’ bones and acting as a second heartbeat behind the sternum. That Saturday, the club was packed to capacity and then some, the crush of people leaving the air hanging low and damp. Sweat dotted the edge of Gon’s jaw, sliding over his temples and sticking his shirt to his chest and lower back. The bouncer leaned against the back wall, arms folded over his chest as he eyed the crowd writhing on the dance floor in front of him. Flashing neon lights turned the bodies into amorphous, ever-shifting shadows. A woman about his age caught his gaze from her position at the outer edge of the dancers; her gaze skimmed appreciatively over his body and she tossed her hair, winking and making a come-hither motion with one hand.
Not changing his facial expression, Gon unfolded his arms to point at the Nox logo on his uniform shirt, a silent reply of thanks, but no thanks. The woman shrugged like it was all the same to her and slipped deeper into the crowd.
Sighing, Gon re-crossed his arms and let his head lay against the wall. Here he was, bouncing for the busiest nightclub in Yorknew on a Saturday night, and he was bored. How long had it been since he got in a real fight? Since he did anything more than bust a couple underage teens with bad fakes or escort some handsy asshole to the door with a hand settled heavy and firm on his shoulder?
Not since his last foray into The Wash, Yorknew’s underground fighting circle. But he’d promised Aunt Mito he’d stop supplementing their income with his pretty face after his third broken nose. He couldn’t support himself – never her and his great-grandmother, she never asked for the cash he sent her way and never would, not that Gon needed the woman who’d raised him like a son since she was fourteen to ask him for a damn thing – if he was in jail because he got caught prize-fighting in an empty warehouse. And the bills were already high enough, between his own lackluster living expenses, his great-grandmother Abe’s medical bills, and the ever-increasing cost of Whale Island living. Soon even working legit jobs wasn’t going to be enough.
“Gon?”
He looked down. One of the dancers and bartenders, Millie, stood at his side. She’d replaced the flimsy, barely-there negligee of a dress she danced in with a sweatshirt and leggings, her purse slung over one shoulder. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course,” Gon said, using his own back to push himself off the wall and stand upright. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I think, it’s just – there’s this customer who’s been giving me a creepy vibe all night,” Millie explained, looking nervous. Gon instantly straightened, eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk. “He hasn’t said or done anything, not really, I just – would you mind walking me to my car, just in case?”
“Yeah, of course,” Gon said. “Let me just–”
He waved to the manager behind the bar, pointing between himself, Millie, and the door to show he was walking her out. The manager sent him a brisk nod before returning to the bar.
Outside, the air was only slightly less humid as the summer rolled over the city. Thunder rumbled in the distance from an off-bay storm, illuminating the open ocean with the occasional flash of lightning. The scent of rain mixed into the omnipresent odors of garbage from the alleyway and smog. Sometimes, Gon missed Whale Island’s gentle ocean breezes so much he felt nauseous.
“Thanks for doing this,” Millie said as they walked. “I feel a little silly, asking you to walk me, but–”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Gon assured her gently. “It’s what I’m here for.”
It was, wasn’t it, he thought. Break up bar fights. Bounce the occasional asshole with more entitlement than sense. Walk people to their cars or the subway stop. Pour a beer from the tap, if it was an especially busy night. It was a good job that kept people safe and paid his bills, and Gon was so bored he worried some days he might burst out of his own skin from it.
“Yeah, but it’s not like that guy even bothered me,” Millie was saying when Gon tuned back in. She’d missed his distraction, looking down into her purse as she dug for her keys. “He–”
Millie’s words cut off in a startled yelp when Gon’s arm suddenly jumped up and out, catching her in the chest and stopping her momentum short. His eyes narrowed as he eyed the man standing under a streetlight in the middle of the parking lot. There was little remarkable about him: black jeans, black t-shirt, beat-up jacket. At last Millie saw him, too, and she gave a frightened little squeak at the sight. Gon closed one hand into a fist.
“Are you lost, sir?” He asked neutrally, his voice echoing in the empty lot. He glanced around just in case this guy had friends, but the pothole-spotted lot was empty aside from them, the small sea of cars, and the flickering lamp on Nox’s back wall. “The club entrance is around the front.”
“I’m just waiting for my girlfriend,” the man lied, like Gon was stupid. He sauntered forward, hands in his pockets. “Thanks for walking her to her car, but I’ve got it from here. You can head back inside now.” Dark eyes slid impassively from Gon to Millie. “You ready to go, babe?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Millie said clearly, even as her voice shook. “I don’t know you.”
The man chuckled nervously. “C’mon, babe, that’s not funny. You know me.”
Millie stepped back. Her sneakers crunched over loose gravel. “No, I don’t. Get away from me.”
“You need to leave,” Gon said. He slid a half-step forward, planting one leg and the bulk of his torso between the two. “Get out, now, and this doesn’t have to get messy.”
“Dude, fuck off,” the man said. Then he made Gon’s night: he crossed the clear barrier Gon created between him and Millie, attempting to shove Gon back with a hand to his shoulder and reaching his other towards Millie’s wrist.
Gon’s blood roared. Time slowed as he allowed the man’s shove to adjust his balance, sending the shoulder he hit twisting back as Gon’s body twisted to follow the momentum. In another moment Gon was behind the man, catching the wrist he reached for Millie with and twisting it just past the point of pain. He yanked the arm behind the man’s back.
“She made herself clear,” Gon snarled. “Leave, and don’t ever come back. I’m good at remembering faces.”
He sent the man stumbling with a little shove. For a moment, the man looked like he really might turn around and try and fight Gon on this, but then he adjusted his jacket with a biting remark Gon couldn’t be bothered to hear and fucked off. Gon watched him go until he was out of sight before returning his attention to Millie.
“Are you okay?” He asked.
“I – yeah,” Millie said, eyes round like saucers. “I’m fine, I’ve just never seen someone move that fast.”
Gon shrugged. Changing the subject, he went on, “Will you make it home okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be alright,” Millie promised. “I’ll text you when I’m home. Thanks, Gon.”
She sent him a final parting wave before climbing into her car. Gon watched the tail lights as she drove over bumpy pavement and finally pulled out into the street. For a few moments he was alone, the lot empty save for him, the empty cars, and the bass beat.
“Well done,” a new voice said.
Gon whirled around. He hadn’t seen anyone moving among the lot lights, nor had he heard the sound of footsteps over the gravel, but suddenly a man stood under the flickering light like an apparition. He was shorter than Gon, blond, dressed in an expensive tailored suit. He stood casually with his hands in his pockets, eyeing Gon like he was a mildly interesting book display.
“You neutralized the threat in less than a second,” the man observed. He tilted his head, still considering. “Kept the woman safe.”
“Her name is Millie,” Gon corrected nonsensically. He looked around again, still confounded. How did he–?
“Kept Millie safe,” the man amended smoothly. “I could use someone with skills like that.”
Gon’s head instantly perked up. I could use someone with skills like that. He’d heard people talk like that before, men in fancy suits with fancy watches who distastefully winced at his bloody knuckles but still wanted to pay him to use them on their enemies. The phrase came from another life entirely, one that Gon promised his aunt he’d walked away from.
“I got out of that world,” Gon forced himself to say. “My fists aren’t for sale. Find another hitter.”
“There isn’t another hitter,” the man said. “None like you. Do you want to know why?”
Actually, Gon needed to get back to work, otherwise his manager might call the police thinking something was wrong. Nevertheless, he heard himself say: “Sure.”
“Anyone can throw a punch,” the man said calmly. Pushing himself off the wall, he walked closer with soundless steps. “But few people throw them well, and even fewer throw them with something to protect.” Another step. “Something to prove.”
Gon stiffened reflexively. He can’t possibly know. No one knows. I’ve been out of that world for too long; I was never a big name in the first place.
“I have a job,” the man said, stopping in front of Gon. Faster than Gon’s eyes could see, he produced a plain white business card out of his pocket and held it out for Gon to take. “I need someone who can throw a punch and take one even better. Three months. High risk, high reward.”
Three months. Gon would have to uproot his entire withered life, quit his job and break his lease. Did he have enough in his savings to keep Mito and his great-grandmother going?
A promise is a promise, Gon reminded himself. He’d walked away from the seedy underworld his father abandoned him for, had hung up his spot-stained hand wrappings for a safe security job.
He opened his mouth to refuse, but instead he asked, “How high?”
“The risk? Prison for life, if we’re lucky; a sudden and ignominious death if we’re not,” the man said, sounding amused.
“And the reward?”
The man arched an eyebrow. His smirk widened. “One hundred million jenny.”
One hundred million jenny. It was more money than Gon had ever heard of in his life, and orders of magnitude more than his previous jobs offered. He’d have been lucky to break a hundred thousand jenny a year when he was in the game before; this was the big score money, retirement money, give his aunt and great-grandmother a new house and new medical equipment money, find his father money.
Gon snatched the card out of the man’s hand. The plain white card stock only featured a single word, handwritten in a looping hand: Kurapika. Beneath the name was a phone number.
“And what do I do if I say yes?” Gon asked without looking away from the card. His head was still ringing with one hundred million jenny and all the comfort such a sum could purchase.
There was no reply. Confused, Gon jerked his chin up and looked around the lot. He was alone again, Kurapika having vanished as suddenly and silently as he’d appeared.
The Thief (and the Hacker) (and the Fixer) (and the Forger)
Institut umění Pata, Republic of Rokario
2:39am
“Everyone in position?”
Killua managed to hold back a scoff, but just barely. “Do you mean me?”
“No, I don’t,” Nanika said disapprovingly. “There are more people in there besides you, Kiki.”
Killua scowled at the childish nickname from beneath his mask. “If there are, then it’s because someone isn’t doing their job.”
“Will you hurry the fuck up?” Alluka hissed. “I can only pretend to be a drunk, lost tourist for so long.”
“I’m in position,” Kalluto said, forever the one to cut their siblings’ bickering short. Killua pictured his getaway driver sitting hunched down in the maintenance van parked in the side alley, their sister leaning over her array of computer screens in the repurposed back section.
“The guards will be finishing their 2:45 sweep in three, two… done,” Nanika counted down. “I can hijack the cameras for only twenty seconds until the system resets the connection.”
Killua passed gloved hands over the rigging over his torso, triple-checking that all of his clips and fastenings were in place. “Count me down.”
“‘Kay,” Nanika said. “Three–”
“Two,” Kalluto counted.
“One,” Killua finished, and he jumped.
This was why Killua Zoldyck had ever and would ever only work with his siblings. For all their childish bantering and sibling pettiness, they operated together seamlessly when it came down to it. They operated with one brain, one heart, one soul, one shared fucked-up training regime. They had their specialties, and they trusted each other to complete their roles to perfection. That their parents never allowed anything else was incidental.
Alluka distracted the guards by pretending to be just another pretty, lost tourist turned around in Pata City’s nightlife section. Nanika hacked the security system just long enough to loop the cameras in the museum’s East Gorteau Artifact Room, getting in and out without detection. Killua rappelled from his entry point through the skylight, body hanging parallel to the pressure-sensitive floor panels.
For three seconds, the world was a shadowy blue-black blur of movement and motion, his stomach rising from the sudden drop. The lines slowed him to a stop in front of a square glass case featuring a single piece of jewelry: an enormous, diamond-encrusted brooch framing two dark, pristine emeralds. One was teardrop-cut and shimmering even in the dim moonlight shining through the skylight; the other round-cut, its flat surface carved to depict a bouquet of lilies.
It took Killua a second to pull his electronic lock jammer from his pocket and press the button to turn it on. After another second it beeped, alerting that its brief burst had knocked out any and all electronic locks in a ten-foot radius.
With a flick of the wrist, Killua produced his lockpicking tools from his sleeve and reached for the lock. Three seconds, two deft flicks of the wrist, and the lock clicked open.
“Ten seconds, Kiki.”
Killua did not respond, too focused on his task. He did not need anyone else minding his time. One of his earliest lessons was how to meter out his time and count seconds like an ever-ticking metronome. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.
It was the work of moments to remove the brooch from its plush velvet pillow and replace it with the copy Kalluto spent the last three weeks painstakingly crafting. From the naked eye, Killua could not discern between a single stone’s angular cut in the original or in the forgery. It would take a gemologist or a jeweler with a wealth of equipment to ever catch the difference. By the time a layman thought to question the piece, the original would be far, far away.
Sixteen. The glass case latched shut again.
Seventeen. Killua tapped a button on his shoulder and braced himself for the sudden shift in momentum as he rocketed to the ceiling.
Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Safely out of the sight of the cameras, Killua caught the lip of the skylight window and flipped himself onto the roof. Silently, he closed the skylight, gathered his materials, and made his way down the side fire escape as quickly as he could.
“Drive,” Killua said as soon as he was in the van, safely ensconced in the back. He sent Alluka a short nod; his sister distractedly returned it as she wiggled into a pair of leggings under her slinky little dress.
“Seatbelts,” Nanika ordered, not looking back as she started up the van. Killua pulled down his mask to rest around his neck and yanked off his black cap, freeing his hair.
“Do you have the brooch?” Kalluto asked.
“Nope. Dropped it on my way to the ceiling.”
“I’ll kill you.”
Snickering, Killua produced the brooch from his pocket. It was the size of his hand, resting heavily in his palm and glittering under the streetlights.
“Ooh, pretty!” Alluka cooed, leaning over Killua’s shoulder to examine closer.
“This is what the client wanted?” Killua wondered aloud. “It’s hideous. It looks like something our grandmother would wear.”
“Because you’re a cretin with no real taste,” Kalluto sighed, sounding supremely put-upon. They held out a hand in silent demand. Killua handed it over without bothering to reply. He didn’t share Kalluto or Alluka’s fondness for the shinies; his interest lay more in the thrill of the theft itself, the race against time to avoid detection and slip in and out with his prize safely in hand.
“The Tsubashi Emerald,” Kalluto shared as if Killua had asked. “Discovered in West Gorteau three hundred years ago, weighing in at 57.5 carats. It received its name from Tsubashi Kiriko, who carved the stone to feature stargazer lilies, his daughter’s favorite flower, for her wedding. It was stolen from the family during the Gorteau Civil War two decades later and has bounced from seller to seller, museum to museum, until Institut umění Pata procured it ten years ago.”
“And now we have it,” Killua said.
“And now we have it,” Kalluto echoed. They pulled their phone from their pocket. “I’ll inform the buyer.”
Killua hummed. He spent the rest of the drive catnapping against the van wall, counting the seconds in the fifteen-minute drive.
Six hundred twenty-two. Six hundred twenty-three. Six hundred twenty-four. Six hundred twenty-five.
They arrived at the family estate at only seven hundred and thirty-two seconds, because Nanika still drove like she was street racing regardless of the vehicle or terrain. She passed through the electronic gate with the standard combination of a card and palm print, and let the others into the house after her with a different card, another palm scan, and a retinal scan.
All this just to get in the door, Killua thought moodily. But he was long-used to the extra security. The Zoldyck family operated its businesses, shell corporations, and LLCs all over the world, and it ultimately became more cost-effective to simply purchase a modest (read: multi-million-dollar) home and stay there during the family’s frequent travels. And if they also served as inconspicuous safehouses and bases for their various illicit deeds? That was also part of the plan. The Zoldycks did not come by their wealth, fame, and status by accident or mere luck of the market.
Yawning, Killua crawled out of the van behind Alluka. He wanted a shower and a chocolate bar and his bed. At least he could sleep in tomorrow; they weren’t due to fly out to make the drop with the buyer for another day or two. He followed his siblings up the stairs to the safe room, where they kept their tech, weapons, and lock box secure from any prying eyes.
Kalluto keyed them into the room this time, swallowing a yawn of their own. Thumb print, retinal scan, voice recognition – Zeno Zoldyck was a paranoid old bastard, and his son only added onto his twisted legacy. Killua was waiting for the day they needed to give a blood sample just to take a piss.
They walked into the study, a massive room of dark mahogany wood and plush purple accents. The curtains, the carpets, the fancy uncomfortable chairs in front of the fireplace all gave the place an air of severity. Kalluto approached the mantle clock that doubled as a small valuables safe, inputting a sixteen-digit passcode that opened the clock face to reveal a compartment hidden inside.
Kalluto reached for their inner pocket. A moment later they whirled around on Killua, frowning vaguely. “Very funny, Kiki. Hand it over.”
“Huh?”
“The brooch,” Kalluto snapped. They held out a hand. “Give it here.”
Killua stared uncomprehendingly. “I already gave it to you.”
“Yeah, and then you stole it back.”
“No, I didn’t?” Killua replied, his voice pitching up like it was a question. He’d remember doing something like that, unless he’d progressed to the point of exhaustion he’d just started pickpocketing out of habit. It’d never happened before, but he lived an eventful enough life; he’d buy it.
“C’mon, Kiki, it’s balls-a.m.,” Nanika whined. “Just give it back.”
“I would if I had it,” Killua said, reaching into his pockets and literally turning them inside out to prove himself. “But I don’t.”
The study fell silent as the four siblings exchanged uneasy glances. Cold dread crept up Killua’s spine as he imagined just what their father would do to him if he learned he’d somehow lost a thirty-five-million jenny brooch immediately following a heist.
“So if you don’t have it,” Kalluto said slowly, with the kind of calm that only came over the extremely freaked out and panicking, “And I don’t have it…”
“I have it.”
The four whirled around as one, weapons materializing in their hands as if from the air. Alluka with her knives; Nanika with her tranq darts; Kalluto with their throwing stars; Killua with his gun.
Killua, scion-to-be of the Zoldyck business and criminal empire, was the only Zoldyck child trained in firearms. His piece was a sleek black pistol with a silencer attached to the other end. He’d never used it on anything or anyone but the paper targets in the shooting range. He was a poor shot.
(But as he’d shown his father time and again, and again, and again, and again–
Killua would do any number of things to keep his siblings safe from their father’s attention, scrutiny, ire, scorn.)
The man standing just inside the door appeared unafraid of the multiple weapons suddenly pointed his way. Without being told, he raised his hands so they were level with his head. Something green and white glittered in his hand.
“Worry not; I’ve neither the need nor the desire for such a piece,” the man said. He tossed it to Kalluto, who caught it with one hand. “Examine it, if you like. I assure you it is genuine. I lack your talent for forgery. You created a truly stellar replica.”
“Thank you,” Kalluto said stonily. They pocketed a throwing star and replaced it with a magnifying eyepiece. For several seconds, the room was silent as they examined the brooch.
“I’d need more equipment to be positive, but he’s telling the truth,” Kalluto decided. “This is the Tsubashi.”
The stranger nodded magnanimously but did not lower his hands. Nor Killua did lower his gun.
“Who are you, and why have you broken into our home?”
The man made a strange scoffing sound at Killua referring to the mansion as his home, but nevertheless, he said, “You may call me Kurapika. I apologize for the intrusion, but it was the only way I knew how to speak with you without attracting attention.”
“Attention?” Killua asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Kurapika held his gaze. “Of your father, naturally.”
Killua inhaled sharply. Of course; this was the one location in the house where one could speak without fear of being overheard or recorded. The walls were thick, soundproof, and blocked any external signals attempting to hack their servers. It was the one place Silva Zoldyck did not have cameras and microphones acting as security or blackmail collection.
The man hadn’t made any attempt to fight, and he was outnumbered four-to-one in any case, so Killua slowly lowered his gun. “Alright, Kurapika. You found us. You snuck in. What do you want?”
“Hold on,” Nanika piped up. “I’m not ready to move on so fast. How the hell did you get in here?”
Kurapika shrugged. “Your security, while state-of-the-art, is not foolproof.”
Alright, then. Killua repeated, “What do you want from us?”
“Very little, truly,” Kurapika said. “I’m only here to contract your services.”
Alluka’s brows rose to her hairline. “You broke into our house to offer us a job?”
“One that you can’t risk letting our father know about,” Nanika mused. She exchanged a look with her siblings.
“What is it?” Kalluto asked.
Kurapika lifted his chin. “The Greed Island Annual Auction.”
“Absolutely not,” Killua instantly replied. He raised his gun again to point it squarely at Kurapika’s chest. “Get the hell out.”
“Kiki–!” Alluka protested, reaching for his arm, but Nanika and Kalluto grabbed her to hold her back.
Killua did not look away from Kurapika. It was one of the Zoldyck family’s greatest rules: no jobs at the Greed Island Auction. No shenanigans. Not a toe out of line. Almost all of them spent their youth parading around with their parents, flaunting their image of the perfect high-society family. There was no way Killua was going to drag his siblings back to their hometown and try to run a job under their father’s nose. He’d skin Killua alive.
Silva would drag them home, and he’d never loosen his leash again.
“I can make it worth your while,” Kurapika pressed on, undeterred.
“Shut up,” Killua snarled.
“It’s a chance to humiliate your father internationally,” Kurapika continued.
“Uh, I’m listening,” Nanika opined.
“Shut up,” Killua repeated. He stomped forward until the barrel of his gun pressed against Kurapika’s chest. The other man barely reacted; if anything, for a moment, he just looked incredibly sad. But then the expression was gone as if it were a mirage, a trick of Killua’s tired eyes.
“It’s a chance at freedom,” Kurapika said quietly. “True freedom with no strings attached.”
“And when whatever idiotic plan you’ve concocted fails?” Killua snarled, his hand shaking.
They would find themselves in prison, if they were lucky; under house arrest if they were not; shuttered away from society after paying off everyone who ever saw them in the worst-case scenario. They would toe the family line in public and complete any job their father asked in private. He would lock Nanika away again. One day, he would demand Killua finally shoot his gun for a killing blow, and something in him would die permanently.
“It won’t,” Kurapika promised.
Killua snarled. “There’s no way you could possibly promise that.”
“I can,” Kurapika said. “Because I planned it.”
Something about the sheathed steel in Kurapika’s voice, the confidence in his tone, stayed Killua’s hand. For a moment, it was enough for Killua to know that Kurapika believed in his own plan, regardless of how much Killua refused to believe it himself.
But what if he’s right? Killua wondered. Hope, incandescent and strange and terrible, flooded his chest. It was all he could do to squash it down again. What if he really can pull this off? Can I risk everyone’s safety on a hare-brained scheme I know nothing about?
Then: If this plan has even half a chance of succeeding – if there’s really a world where we can escape, free and clear – can I risk refusing it outright?
Killua’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the score?”
“One hundred million jenny.” A sharp inhale from one of the sisters behind them. Kurapika glanced over Killua’s shoulder to look at Alluka, Nanika, and Kalluto individually. “Each.”
A hundred million jenny each. Four hundred million jenny between them. They could escape their family and start over for good with that kind of money. Slowly, Killua lowered his gun and looked over his shoulder at his siblings.
“What do you think?” He asked.
Alluka and Nanika each nodded emphatically. Kalluto still just looked stunned at the sum.
“That’ll buy a lot of brooches,” they said faintly.
The Grifter
Marvelle Apartments, Ininge City
8:57pm
Doctor Leorio Paladiknight stifled a yawn behind his hand as his elevator took him to the fifteenth floor of his apartment. It had been a long – albeit rewarding – day in Ininge General’s emergency department, and all he wanted to do was make himself a simple dinner and collapse into bed. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place as Leorio walked down the hall to his pre-furnished apartment, nor when he slipped his key into the lock, nor when he walked inside and tossed his wallet and keychain into the small ceramic bowl next to the door.
This was the grifter’s greatest gift, after all: hiding in plain sight.
In fact, nothing struck Leorio as out of the ordinary, nor hinted to him that his cover was blown, until he walked past his living room and realized the living room light was on. When he looked around the corner, he saw that a stranger was sitting in his armchair like he was the one whose name was on the lease.
He was about Leorio’s age, short and slim in stature, with medium-length blonde hair. Pale skin and large, dove-gray eyes contrasted against a perfectly tailored suit. The only spark of color on him was a small ruby earring dangling from his left ear.
The man lifted a cup of tea in Leorio’s direction. He recognized his own mug in the man’s hand.
“Doctor,” he greeted. He spoke with a faint accent Leorio could not quite place. “Join me, please?”
Leorio stared. What the fuck circled his brain, mingling with he’s gorgeous and how did he get in here and what the fuck, he’s gorgeous.
Astoundingly, the first question out of Leorio’s mouth was: “Are you here to kill me?”
The man’s smile slipped. If anything, he looked confused. “I hadn’t planned on it, no.”
“Huh,” Leorio said. He considered for another moment. “Do I owe you money?”
The man’s expression did not change except for a single slow blink, like Leorio was the odd one here.
“Not that I know of,” he said.
Leorio studied him for another moment. He appeared the picture of ease sitting there in Leorio’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded patiently in his lap. There were no telltale bunchings of fabric hinting at a concealed weapon; if he really was here to kill Leorio, either he intended to use some other means, or he could do so with his bare hands.
But Leorio suspected this stranger would not go to the lengths of watching him long enough to discover his identity and break into his apartment just to greet him pleasantly when he walked in the door.
“Alright, then,” Leorio shrugged. “Let me put my things down and grab a drink, and we’ll talk.”
Again, the man looked almost surprised at Leorio’s easy acquiescence. Leorio took the time to properly hang up his bag and suit jacket, loosening his tie with a few swift tugs on his way to his little kitchen.
“I know you’ve already helped yourself to my tea, so this is probably a little belated,” Leorio called as he opened the refrigerator, “But you want anything?”
Another pause. Leorio could only imagine the stranger’s expression when he replied, “No, thank you.”
Suit himself. Leorio pulled an IPA from the shelf, popped it open with the magnetic bottle opener attached to the door, and returned to the living room. His uninvited guest had not so much as twitched since Leorio walked inside.
“Alright, hit me,” Leorio said, settling onto the couch across from the man. He downed a mouthful of his beer. “What do you want?”
The stranger sipped his tea. “I am here to offer you a job.”
“Kinda assumed,” Leorio said, waving a hand at the stranger to go on. What with the breaking-and-entering and the tailored suit that looked more expensive than the apartment he was currently leasing, this man could only exist in Leorio’s second world – the one that existed parallel to his civilian life as a doctor.
The stranger’s lips twitched in a quickly-stifled smile. “Yes, well.” He set his cup aside and re-laced his fingers. “I am putting together a crew to assist in the attainment of an item from the Greed Island Annual Auction. Though the risks are considerable, I hope the offered payout would be enough to intrigue you.”
“Intrigue me,” Leorio echoed. He tipped his head to the side, felt his neck crack, tilted it the other way to balance things out. “How much?”
“One hundred million jenny.”
Leorio whistled, long and low. The payout was more than enough to intrigue him; frankly, it was absurd. Though he supposed it made sense: the risks of the job had to be considerable, the security impregnable, the item nigh-unobtainable.
“Indeed,” the man agreed. “Will you do it?”
Leorio considered for another moment. “No.”
A long pause. The stranger gaped attractively, his obvious surprise stretching out the silence. He was too controlled to express his shock in any way that was not blinking. One blink, now two, now three–
“What?” The man asked.
Leorio shrugged. “Just what I said. I’m not interested. I’m not going to help you steal something that some rich fuck is too lazy to buy. So either tell me the real reason you want me, or get out.”
“‘The real reason?’” He repeated.
“Well, yeah,” Leorio said, thinking this should be obvious. He took another sip of his beer. “You break into my apartment without a trace and offer me an obscene amount of money to steal something it would take maybe two weeks and a bottle of pinot noir to have some rich schmuck hand to me. It would certainly take the Phantom Thief even less time to get to it.”
The Phantom Thief. The man’s jaw tightened, revealing that Leorio’s shot-in-the-dark bluff had hit its mark. Triumph flared hot in his chest.
“So, what the hell are you assembling a team for, Phantom?” Leorio asked.
Phantom scoffed, his laugh startled and somehow all the better for its unexpected appearance. “As flattered as I am of your opinions of my abilities, this particular job requires an elite team of highly competent individuals who transcend the competition in their unique specialties.”
Leorio snorted. “Nice to be called competent, I suppose.”
“You are more than competent; you are the best,” Phantom replied, so plain, honest, and straightforward in the praise that Leorio nearly spilled his beer all over his slacks. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I have not contacted another grifter with this offer.”
Phantom snapped his mouth shut after that, like he’d said more than he intended. Leorio, still taken aback by the evening’s series of events, asked, “Why me?”
“Because of Doli City,” Phantom explained. “And Meteor City before that, and Beeskafmarro before that, and Zaban City before that. Would you like me to list more jobs, Robin Hood?”
Leorio cringed at the name their criminal underworld assigned him. “No, and please never call me that again.”
“Very well.” There was a smile in Phantom’s voice, but when Leorio opened his eyes, the other man was as straight-lipped as ever. “I want you because your marks are the exact kind of entitled bullies these events cater to. You have spent your career knocking them down a peg.”
“And you haven’t,” Leorio shot back. He was familiar with the Phantom Thief’s hits, but then again, so was everyone; he was a legend for a reason. His prolific career spanned continents, over a decade now, and he was one of the few thieves who’d never been caught. There was neither rhyme nor reason to his thefts: jewels, paintings, sculptures, carvings, antiquities. He’d stolen the Sun-Dew Diamond from the Zevil Island Institution; the solid gold execution sword from the Yul National Treasury; the oil-and-canvas painting The Black Whale At Sea from the Kakin Empire Imperial Gallery; even the crown jewels and Chimera Diamond from NGL. The Phantom Thief was many things, but Robin Hood he was not.
Phantom’s jaw twitched again, the tell showing that this time Leorio’s words inadvertently hit harder than intended. His fingers squeezed tighter.
“Are you…” He started before trailing off. He cleared his throat and went on, louder, “Are you familiar with the Kurta Eyes?”
“Duh?” Leorio said. Everyone knew the Kurta Eyes. They were the kind of famous that even people who knew nothing about art were aware of, like da Vinci or the Hope Diamond. Phantom laughed quietly at the response, lifting his chin to meet Leorio’s gaze. His dove-gray eyes were spackled with flecks of carmine, the color catching like rubies under the lamplight.
Ah, Leorio thought, and all of a sudden he realized he was one of the few people who had ever seen the Phantom Thief’s face.
“The Kurta Eyes, among several other important artifacts of cultural or religious importance to many marginalized groups around the world, are being sold at this year’s auction,” Phantom said. His glare dared Leorio to refuse him now. “Their starting price is two billion jenny. Only a private collector or an especially fearless – or careless – museum could afford such a sum. And what do you think will happen when the price inevitably rises to three, four, five billion?”
“Very few people could afford a cost that high,” Leorio finished. “And you don’t get those kinds of funds by playing nice in the sandbox.”
Another surprised smile. Still, Phantom pressed on, “There are artifacts at this auction that haven’t been seen in decades. When they’re purchased, they’ll vanish for another three generations.”
“So this isn’t just a heist,” Leorio realized. “It’s a rescue mission.”
“If you insist on such a phrasing, I will not argue the point,” Phantom said. He spread his hands. “Well? Does that change your answer, doctor?”
“On one condition,” Leorio said, holding up a finger.
The man raised an eyebrow, drawling, “Just the one?”
“Yep,” Leorio said. He studied the man’s face: fine cheekbones, honey-blond lashes, a smattering of freckles over his nose. Somehow, he looked nothing like how he’d pictured the Phantom Thief might look. Somehow, he was exactly what Leorio imagined.
“What’s your name?” Leorio asked.
Whatever he might have asked, it was clear the Phantom Thief did not anticipate that question. Pink lips parted briefly in surprise before he regained his composure. The man sat up even straighter, like his propriety was powered by the rigidness of his spine alone.
“Kurapika,” the man said. His accent came out stronger with the word, the consonants soft, the r flipped. He met Leorio’s gaze, and he wondered if he was alone in feeling the strange, sudden current of electricity that charged the space between them.
“Well, Kurapika,” Leorio said, leaning forward for a handshake. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”